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Character Name: Valathorn Valatia (Va-la-thorn Va-lay-she-a)

Character Age: 23

Character Gender: Male

Class/Subclass: Ranged - Guns

Archetype: Craftsman

Race: Vvarden

Character Personality: Rather secretive, strategist, perfectionist at times, always planning or plotting, friendly, though not a fighter, he is quite courageous and quick thinking.

Background Information: Tryngheim.. A masterly crafted work of art, or an inescapable iron tomb.. A question that has plagued the mind of very few men before, but none more so then one small, curious child.. This, is the story of said child, of how he broke free from the tormenting iron chains of his culture, risked the most precious secret of his entire species and all they worked to achieve, for his own selfish lust for knowledge.. This, is the story of Valathorn Valatia, and this is the tale, of how he died. Genius, talented, a child prodigy, one who holds such amazing potential. These are but a few of the names, used to describe our protagonist as but a small boy. At the mere age of five, he amazed his teachers and family with his quick ability to learn. He could disassemble small firearms of a more complex nature, analyze every miniscule component to the finest detail, and reassemble said item with baffling ease. In fact, he was known to be mischievous and talented enough to fiddle with his father’s weapons, so when he would grasp his gun before he headed out to the mines, it would crumble apart within his hand and lay in pieces upon the ground, this was one of his favourite past times. By the age of seven, Valathorn was able to design elaborate plans and schemes, to help him achieve his own personal goals, satisfy his hunger for knowledge, or simply out of sheer curiosity. He was hailed by his father, and all those who knew him, to become the most intelligent, professional, thorough and detailed craftsman in recorded history. But fate, had different plans for his future.. Because fate, always has another hand to play.. At the young impressionable age of but ten years old, while the typical children of the earth ran without a care in the world, lost in the light cyan glow upon the soft memorizing sea of magically imbued grass, Valathorn remained confined away within his room. Lit dimly by but a warm flickering flame, resting safely upon a desk littered with schematics and countless plans and calculations, our child was working hard as ever on yet more ideas of his, and it was whilst experimenting with his idea, at attempting to create a firearm of a more silent nature without losing its fatal capabilities, and etching in to the gun such beautiful markings of a rose, that something so terrible, something so unimaginably horrific happened that caused him to freeze in disbelief. Valathorn, had lost his inspiration. The desire to continue, the coal that fuelled the flames of his imagination, had extinguished. Why this incomprehensible occurrence happen, he did not know. Was he growing.. Bored? No, that was not it.. Valathorn pondered this thought for a while, glancing around his barely lit room, eyes glancing over the marvellous carvings upon the walls. Leaping from his chair in annoyance, to begin storming around his room in desperation, avoiding the many scrolls and sheets of paper that lay littered upon the ground, Valathorn by chance, glanced from his rooms window, to overlook the beautiful city that he lived within.. How the gold and silver, glistened in the flame lights, causing the city to have an indescribably glamorous appeal.. How the surrounding fields of gently glowing grass, illuminated the dark surrounding caves that confined the entire race of his people, in to this one, single area.. And within that briefest of moments, it struck him how could he have never have seen it before? The world in which he lived in, surrounded by earth and stone, it grew.. Dull to him. The safety, the carvings, the beauty, although spectacular, after 10 years of living in this secluded world became.. Dull, the gleaming golden bricks, lost their shine, the surrounding caves, began to feel like they were closing in, trapping him both physically, and mentally, restricting his inspiration and freedom.. Staggering backwards from this realisation, Valathorn slumped harshly in to his chair, instinctively beginning to rub his forehead with one hand, as he’d think of a solution to this most difficult of dilemmas.. Until it hit him.. He had to escape this prison. It was common knowledge that it was forbidden for any Vvarden to ever see the light of day, it was a crime so terrible to some, it meant banishment from their underground haven, the glistening jewel buried within the rock that was Tyrngheim. But have you ever tried to tell a 10 year old no? It never sinks through the first time, and they shall try and try again to get their own way. It’s rumoured that some children of the past, have attempted to leave the safety of the ever enduring city, yet none have ever succeeded.. Or so they say. But our small boy, was no ordinary child.. By now, he could outwit an adult, deceive a trickster, even elude an illusionist. However, he truly didn’t perceive just how difficult the task at hand would be, and it’s fair to say he grew rather.. Over confident, not understanding that not ‘everyone’ sealed away in this tomb, were quite as unintelligent as he had imagined. We have spoken little of Valathorn’s family, if at all. This isn’t because he has none, oh no, he has quite a well respected family. His father’s name, was Tungla. Tungla, was a miner. Each day, he delved deeper in to the unknown of the world, in search of rare gems and precious minerals, risking life and limb for the good of his family, equipped with but a pristine golden pickaxe, a helmet capable of illuminating the darkness of his path, no matter where he followed it. And a small, beautifully crafted firearms, which on more than one occasion had saved his life from dreaded skeletons that lurked within the stone, or the bloodthirsty bats who never had such delicious meals before. He was a valued, respected member of the community, if it were not for men like him, Tyrngheim would not be as spectacularly beautiful as it was, making him a truly valued member of the Mining Guild, and the city in general. His mother’s name, was Irisa, and like her husband, was equally, if not more so, respected and valued within the community. She was an active member within the local Engineering guild, much like her child, Valathorn, she was always thinking, always stuck with her head between her books, planning, scheming, designing. While Valathorn was one to admire the beauty of architecture, grand structures, beautiful carvings, the forging of metal. She was one to admire the mechanics, the wiring, and her specialty, trap making, especially if it had something to do with an explosive. Always trying to think of another manner to keep the outsiders away from their home, or to make the pre-dug caves safe to explore, and keeping out the pesky creatures of the deep. The two of them, loved their work, perhaps a tad too much.. You could say, they were the cause of Valathorn’s nature, to lock himself away and have nothing to do with the outside world, like his parents had little to do with him.. But, he got over that a long time ago, now, they were but strangers within his life. But being strangers.. Would they be willing, to protect their beloved city, from their own flesh and blood..? So, at the age of 11 years old, after nearly a full year of planning and scheming, watching and waiting, keeping his plans and true desires to himself, the time had finally come at last. The time for him to break free from this homely prison, was here. Equipping himself with various trinkets he had ‘acquired’ over the years, our protagonist set off, for what he thought was to be the greatest adventure of all times. He had thought for ‘every’ situation, rope, a few various tools to help with survival, some oil, some magical mushrooms to help keep up his strength. And so, as prepared as he thought he’d need to be, he was off. Like a man on a mission, Valathorn marched straight through the fabled city, ignoring the curious eyes of those whom watched his every movement, all whispering behind his back when they thought he could not hear. “Where do you suppose he’s off to?” “Isn’t it obvious woman? He’s headed for the exit, he wants to leave this place.” “But, isn’t that forbidden!? That’s suicide!” “Of course it is, he’ll get us all killed if the surface dwellers find out about us! I ‘ope them gate guards get off their ass’s and tan his hide!” This, was but a typical example of what words filled the air, echoing through the great many halls. No-one had dared to stop him, they thought it best to leave it to the city guards, protectors of the gateway.. But oh, they would need an army if they wished to stop this child, achieving his goal! After what seemed like an age of traversing the city, finally, Valathorn had arrived at the door to his freedom. As he’d froze, gazing up at the huge prison gate, it seemed to loom over him as if he were so insignificant.. But, this was certainly not going to stop him. Continuing forward but two steps, two guards appeared from either side to confront him, remaining deathly silent as their eyes narrowed on the child. To him, it felt like their eyes were piercing his very soul. Valathorn, was but a child.. He knew that confronting the adults would be a foolish idea.. Outwitting them however, would have been mere child’s play. In ‘acceptance’, Valathorn lowered his head in ‘defeat’, to begin turning away dramatically as if all his hopes and dreams had just been shattered.. But he listened, and upon hearing the two guards turning away, he reached for the rope at his side, then spun around, hurling it as best he could at one of the guards heads, looping it around the neck, to sharply tug. This caused the guard to unexpectedly, lose balance. His footing had been lost, he fell back slowly, to smash his head upon the ground with a sudden “thump”, rendering him unconscious. One down, one to go! But by now, the other guard had heard Valathorn’s mischief, and sharply drew out his sword as he turned to the child. But our protagonist, he was prepared. From within his room, Valathorn had taken one of the many small tubs of oil, which he used to lubricate any minor armour and weapons he crafted. As the guard raised his blade, then begun to charge towards the small ‘defenceless’ boy in a slight rage, the boy held tightly unto the rope with one hand, but popped the container of oil clung to his belt with his other, to cause all the contents to flood upon the ground. The guard had taken note of the oil now spilling before him, but he could not stop, his feet continued to run no matter how hard he tried, causing him to step carelessly upon this oil, slip, and fall. A simple smirk coming to this devilishly smart child’s lips, as he’d wander carefully to the door.. Hidden within the corner, Valathorn had uncovered what appeared to be a large rusty lever, appearing not to have been used in years.. Dropping his equipment upon the ground, un-encumbering himself to the best of his ability, he’d take a firm grasp of the lever’s handle with both hands, and with all his might, pulled with every last fibre of his body. But the lever was rusted, and he had no-more oil upon him to lubricate it.. Come on, he could do this, just one small lever in the way between him and freedom! With every ounce of strength within him, he pulled this lever with all his might, causing it bit by bit to screech out of place, causing the very walls and ground around him to rumble slightly as this monstrously huge door shifted, come on, just a few good pulls! “You aren’t leaving our city, you would doom us all!” These, were the words that echoed out from behind him, before a rush of air flew past his head, as something barely avoided his head, and lodged itself within the lever’s mechanisms.. It was, a beautifully crafted golden pickaxe, something created so perfectly, only a master craftsman could have designed it.. Valathorn, should know.. Because he, was the one who made it.. And he knew, who it belonged to.. Turning in disbelief, and fear, trembling slightly as he knew who he would face, his father stood proudly, and shamefully glared back at his son.. It appeared that talk of Valathorn’s idea to leave, had reached even his ears.. Taking him away back home, a tear swelled within the small boys eyes as he’d realise, perhaps, he could never escape his home.. This trap.. This tomb..

Within the following years, Valathorn had been severely punished for his acts, his parents attempted to poison his mind with thoughts and lies, telling him how their god, Valmoran, would look down upon him for his acts.. How the men of the surface, knew only the desire of power, war, and that discovery of this peaceful race would only cause the surface dwellers to invade, steal their technology, enslave us all.. He put up with this for 9 years.. 9 years, of being force fed lies of the surface, forced to return to mastering the art of his craft, being forced to open his own shop in punishment to help pay for up keeping, even had to repair and craft armour for the guards of the gate, creating the same mundane armour day in and day out.. If he did not feel like a true prisoner before, he certainly did now.. But, they never once broke his spirit.. Never once, did they break that desire, to see the beauty of the outside world.. In his eyes, his god would not forsake him, for he would still be of the Earth, still forge beauty in the flames, craft wondrous technology that should be shared with the world, to make them understand that everyone is of Earth, from fire is not just destruction, but beauty, warmth and light, and how technology is the true way forward, how it should be shared to aid all in life, not just the selfish. It was with this in mind.. Valathorn never gave up his dream, he never gave up hope, to one day regain his inspiration, and craft technology and beauty, for the world.. And so, he waited.. Have you ever watched a clock, ticking away second by second? Have you ever watched it just without any distractions? Biding your time, waiting for that one special thing to happen? How long could you wait, before you would just give up? When everything else, is meaningless, and the one thing you desire in the entire world, you could not have? Could you wait nine, long, boringly repetitive years? Valathorn did, he waited nine years of living a life of torment, bound and punished to repeat the same mundane tasks day in and day out.. Nine years, so Valathorn was now a grown man age 19.. Until finally, fate decided to play their hand.. Explosions in the mines, an earthquake, perhaps as some claimed Valmoran himself. Whatever the cause, the entire city of the Vvarden began to tremble, slight pieces of grand ancient structures began to crumble, causing mass panic throughout the entire city. Children and women were screaming, guards panicked, men coursed with fear as they all ran for safety as the caves around them shed small bits of stone, glass shattered, wood splintered, all around. Near everyone retreated for the safety of the most expertly crafted structures, near everyone.. Because amongst the crowd, there was one man not fleeing, but walking.. Not screaming, but laughing.. Valathorn’s time, had come. Dropping by his shop, weaving between the falling boulders that crushed parts of the street, he picked up a few select pieces that he felt he would need, from trinkets to tools, from food to a bucket of water.. Meandering through the city, as the earthquake continued to frighten the many citizens, as they all dashed towards the safety of their structures, he ventured closer to the prison doors, for today was the day, he would finally be set free from this tormenting life. Today, he would escape Tyrngheim. After an hour or so of wandering, as the tremors died down, Valathorn soon found himself at the doors of freedom once more.. And, once again, confronted by the same two guards who refused him passage the time before. Instantly, upon seeing this not so small boy approaching, the two guards drew out their blades, taking a defensive stance.. Valathorn however, drew no weapons.. He simply approached, holding an iron water bucket in hand.. It’s fair to say, the guards were.. Perplexed, how could an un-armoured boy, hope to stand a chance against two armed guards, who were now in expertly crafted silver armour, held together by tanned bat hide, made by Valathorn himself.. “Turn back now, you are no longer a child, we WILL use force!” One of the men called out, but Valathorn remained silent, simply drawing nearer with this bucket of water.. “Halt! Don’t come any closer!” But still, Valathorn drew nearer to his freedom, his liberation.. His death.. The two guards stood closer together, in a defensive stance, before Valathorn without obvious reason, stopped. He simply stood there, holding a water bucket in front of him, but had that same devilish smirk that he did before, all those years ago.. Suddenly, he swung the bucket out at the two men, enveloping them both in mildly cold water, yet did nothing else. The men shielded their eyes, expecting a follow up attack.. But, there was none, what was this? Did he come all this way, just to splash them both in water!? Standing firmly, the two men shook their heads and attempted to approach Valathorn, before suddenly.. They found it getting harder to move. “Wha? What’s going on? I, I can’t move my arms, my legs!” “Gah, what vile sorcery is this!” Valathorn snickered, before approaching the two men as they seemed to freeze in place, almost beginning to laugh in sheer amusement before he’d opened his mouth.. “I have been planning this day, for over 9 years.. 9 years, have the two of you visited my store.. 9 years, have I been replacing the leather straps in your armour.. 9 years, have I been experimenting on them. And at last, the day has come where I could use your own armour against you.. Take note, the straps have shrunk.. Tightened, thanks to exposure to the water.. You’ll be frozen in place for a while, until you dry off.” With that said as he’d moved past the statue like guards, he did not head for that fabled lever of freedom.. Instead, he headed towards the door itself. “What are you doing back there?! Let us, gah! Don’t open that door, you’ll doom us all!” Yelled one of the guards, as the pair hopelessly struggled to escape their armour. Valathorn, was so close to freedom.. Just this one door, stood in the way of freedom.. The beauty, of the outside world.. Inspiration, to craft the most beautiful works of art for the world, was soon to be his once more.. It was time. One small step after another, he made his way closer to that fabled lever, he had dreamt of this moment for so long.. Upon reaching the switch, Valathorn reached in to his pockets, and pulled out a pair of beautifully made, coal black glasses. Seemingly made from glass, but dyed an abyssal black for some unknown reason. He had created these glasses, to fight off against the fabled suns blinding glare. His heart begun to race as the ground trembled beneath his feet, pulling upon the lever, now old enough to shift this aging mechanism, Valathorn gazed out in to the blinding light of the world.. And that, was the moment Valathorn, had died. He was no-longer alive to the Vvarden, to his parents, they had no son.. He truly was, dead in their eyes.. But, he did not care.. For now, started his new life. His new life amongst the land dwellers, his adventure to experience the world all around him, had begun.

4 years later, having been shunned from the history of Vvarden, all knowledge of him erased in time, he had explored the world in disguise, having shaved his beard, kept his beautiful violet eyes shaded, he wandered the land as but a normal man, before settling down in the ancient Vvarden ruins of Hjalhelm, living amongst the Norse as their craftsman. They accepted him as one of their own, as he shared the beauty of his craft, his people with them, but did so with the inspiration that the world around had given him, the beauty he had not seen for so long, from grand structures of powerful civilizations.. To but a simple, vivid crimson rose.. He may have been living life as a secret, but to him, his life.. Was perfect. To him, his life, would never change.. It was fate that helped him to escape the chains of his culture.. But fate, always has another hand to play..

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